


Small Love

by Nebulad



Series: Blessed Are The Righteous [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Prince!Sebastian, Viscount!Hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 17:51:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6715150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nebulad/pseuds/Nebulad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why would you want to upset the Prince of Starkhaven?” Bran asked instead of flat out refusing. Lady Amell paused, staring at him (as he suspected) as if she hadn’t really thought about why she was doing it before making the suggestion.</p><p>“Pettiness?” she offered, taking back her parchment. He had a whole entire city to rebuild, of course, and rereading the letter she found the extra use of <i>restructuring</i> to be a bit more telling now that she was less afraid of receiving a letter that declared war on Kirkwall for harbouring Starkhaven’s recently deceased usurper. There were people he didn’t trust; he was being cautious. The question was whether or not to be cautious in return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small Love

The first letter she received from Starkhaven was brusque and to the point, which annoyed her terribly. She’d been waiting for word for _months—_ Sebastian on his throne was supposed to happen within two. She’d looked over the plans herself and agreed that the way things were slotted with all going as planned, he would have his throne in _maximum_ two months. From there he would send her word that everything was fine and get straight to work.

The letter took _four_ months to arrive, and when she tore it open it read:

 

_To Viscountess Marceline Amell,_

_Starkhaven has been reclaimed according to plan, and all necessary repairs and restructuring have been coming along since August. The Prince estimates that everything should be back in order by next Guardian, but invites Lady Amell to visit the palace at her earliest convenience._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Seneschal Greer on behalf of Prince Sebastian Vael_

 

In addition to being terribly short, Sebastian hadn’t even written it. On top of all that, it was two months late by the sounds of things— of course he’d been busy, but she’d been agonizing over whether or not he was still alive. “Bran?” she asked, and the man appeared at her side like a mage had summoned him from the floor. He was very good at that. “You’re from Starkhaven, yes?”

“I am,” he said with no small amount of trepidation. He’d come to expect the worst from Marceline over the years, and putting her in a seat of power did nothing to alleviate those fears.

“Would I address Sebastian like I would the King of Ferelden’s son, or like I would Viscount Ravi?” she asked, shoving away from unopened letters to make room for a blank piece of parchment.

“I don’t believe he would take offence if you continued to refer to him by his given name,” the seneschal said cautiously. Somehow he didn’t believe this was genuine question of high ranking etiquette, but he could always hope.

“Of course not, but I’m rather hoping he might feel a little sting if I dance out the titles— _oh_ , better yet why don’t you write it?” she asked, shoving the paper at him. He stared over at her. If she were Viscount Dumar he would have completed the task thoughtlessly, but Marceline had been adamant that he never _touch_ her mail.

“Why would you want to upset the Prince of Starkhaven?” he asked instead of flat out refusing. Lady Amell paused, staring at him (as he suspected) as if she hadn’t really thought about why she was doing it before making the suggestion.

“Pettiness?” she offered, taking back her parchment. He had a whole entire city to rebuild, of course, and rereading the letter she found the extra use of _restructuring_ to be a bit more telling now that she was less afraid of receiving a letter that declared war on Kirkwall for harbouring Starkhaven’s recently deceased usurper. There were people he didn’t trust; he was being cautious. The question was whether or not to be cautious in return.

. . . . .

Sebastian was looking for funds for Kirkwall. He’d long since given up the pretense that he wasn’t, abandoning the facade of _trying to ensure bounty_ and openly admitting to his plans to donate to the still ailing city. The patchwork congregation donated by Chantries around the Free Marches to supplement the Kirkwallers who were taking their vows were working out of a tent while Lowtown was rebuilt and Marceline did some work on Darktown. He could speed the work along if the farmers on the outskirts of the city had a good harvest— or if plaid suddenly came back into fashion in Orlais (Maker, he could build Marcy a whole new city if just one of them got their hands on a kilt like they had in 9:30).

“Your Majesty?” Greer was hovering at the door, an unsealed letter in her hand. The woman was a volunteer from the city, having been a clerk before the unfortunate demise of the Vaels. Goran had hired her on as a seneschal but obviously not given her much experience— she was no Bran, but she suited Sebastian just fine and was a quick study. “I was handling the mail but I don’t think I ought to answer this one.”

He recognized Marcy’s handwriting at once, all letters precisely the same size and all in neat capitals. She didn’t know how to write in cursive, as Malcolm had never known and Leandra had never taught her. It was still a sight better than having to decode Orlesian scrawl— a new style of calligraphy had become popular when it was used in a mystery serial, which made it hell to try and sort through Goran’s records. He might’ve asked his cousin for help had the man not _fled._

 

_Sebastian,_

_You’re late, but you’re alive so I’ll forgive you. I’m going to assume you at least open your own mail, and if you don’t I’m sure your Seneschal has the sense to hand this to you (if they don’t then Maker’s breath it’s right there in writing). I promise I won’t discuss any state secrets, but I’d prefer to not speak with you through a third party who’s obligated to call you_ His Majesty _._

_Things are fine here, relatively speaking. Rehousing is under way for the merchants before we chase them all away, and Ferelden generously donated some temporary beds to set up in the Chantry tent. Varric remains our top donor, though Hightown isn’t doing too badly now that I’ve taken to posting the names of people who give money publicly (a good strategy and you can borrow it for a small donation of enough food to feed Darktown before they start getting ideas)._

_Besides all that, I hope you’re all right. I’ll get around to that visit once I can convince Bran to let Varric handle things while I’m gone. At the moment we’ve gone from that tight, thin-lipped look to an immediate tension of the shoulders for at least three hours. Once we graduate to resignation I’ll let you know. You’ll have to show me around the city— I’ve heard you know all the best bars in town._

_Love, Marcy_

 

He smiled down at the paper. “How much did you read before giving up?” he asked Greer, more out of curiosity than desire to reprimand.

“I can read an order when I see it, Your Majesty,” she responded, a little indignant. He nodded then waved her away— he’d been having her deal with his mail in hopes that she’d dealt with enough of Goran’s to know what was important for him to see and what was the tenth congratulations he’d received in half as many days. He vaguely remembered mentioning to the seneschal that Marceline had to be contacted and informed of their victory— late, yes, but he’d had precious little time to get organized in the past few months. Greer must have interpreted it as an order.

He stared down at that little farewell, the tiny _love_ written in her precise hand. He would have a hard time convincing anyone that she’d said it— she wasn’t the type with anyone but him. He remembered when he’d left, built up in armour a bit bulkier than usual and practically trembling at the prospect of returning home. In the dimness of her office at dusk, she’d leaned over and kissed him carefully, as if he would shatter under pressure. Her hand had reached up to cradle his cheek with a gentleness that any bandit caught under her sword would never believe, and when she pulled back she’d looked him right in the eyes. _Go on then, finish up over there and come back to me. I love you._

She hadn’t said it in the letter directly, but he could feel it all the same. He pulled out some blank parchment— if nothing else, Greer was highly efficient at keeping his desk stocked— and began to make amends.

**Author's Note:**

> [My writing blog is here](http://nebulaad.tumblr.com) where I post more fic that people avoid reading. My main of course is where you get all the good hysteria about how every ruler in the Free Marches has a title that implies a different rank and yet they all technically hold the same rank so Sebastian is a Prince but is technically the same rank as Hawke who is a Viscount so would she refer to him like people would to Cailan before Maric died or would she refer to him as a fellow Viscount or would he refer to her as a fellow Princess or would they refer to each other as Teryns like Ostwick has or Margraves like Ansburg or Dukes like Wyecombe. Fun fact, Viscount Ravi is from Kaiten which is the Marcher State that no one has fucking heard of ever but Kirkwall and Kaiten are the only two states with matching rulers, both using Viscount.


End file.
